


Flotsam and Jetsam

by 0positiv



Category: Being Human (UK), Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-09-02 13:49:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8670100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0positiv/pseuds/0positiv
Summary: When a guy in Bristol cries "wolf" - or rather "werewolf" - who ya gonna call? Your friendly neighbourhood wizard cops.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For the sake of wanting to write this crossover I am ignoring how the timelines don't really match up between those two things.

Being the only two coppers left who knew how to deal with what Seawoll so charmingly calls “weird bollocks” means me and Nightingale – sorry, _Nightingale and I_ – get to go on quite a few day trips that force us to leave London behind. Being a born and bred Londoner I am not usually in favour of leaving her but needs must.

So when a nice young man in Bristol ran into the police station and demanded to be arrested for the murder of his fiancée because he needed protection from her ghost, a werewolf and a vampire someone clearly thought this sounded like Falcon business. So who ya gonna call? (Nightingale might or might not have got that reference but he looked pretty disgusted at the awful English.) Your friendly neighbourhood wizard cops.

And so a few hours drive in the Jag while guessing at the ingredients of the sandwiches Molly had shoved into my hand with a glare (she doesn't like it when police business takes Nightingale away for more than a day and of course it's all my fault) found us renting rooms in a small bed and breakfast.

Going by the looks the guy gave us the proprietor clearly shared my first impression of Nightingale, posh older gay guy with a slightly ethnic younger boyfriend, and thought we were only renting two rooms to keep up appearances. I completely blame the way Nightingale dresses but it's not like I can tell my boss that he needs to update his wardrobe.

We reviewed the case file over dinner after we had spent an agonizing hour listening to Mr. Owen Narayan babbling mostly incoherently between crying fits. All he really told us was what he'd already told the other coppers: He pushed his fiancée Anna Clare Sawyer down the stairs, she died, then she came back to haunt him with the help of her housemates who just happen to be a werewolf and a vampire.

The file on her death was understandably thin because it had been ruled an accident, all very tragic, case closed. There wasn't really much on the two guys who had rented the house. So far all we knew was that they worked as hospital porters. Once you've exhausted all the paperwork a diligent policeman has to face the terrible task of actually talking to suspects and witnesses. I was not entirely sure which category our three supernatural housemates fell into since all they'd apparently done was scare a murderer shitless, which I heartily approve of by the way. I think I'll go with _persons of interest_ so far, always looks good and official in a report.

It was already getting dark when I knocked on their door while Nightingale was busy frowning over the alarming shade of pink someone had painted the house. We had of course not called ahead to let them know we were coming, it's not a good idea to give people a chance to prepare for your visit – hide the drugs, bury the bodies, get their stories straight. It of course means that we have to risk them not being home when we forcefully knock on the door but today we were lucky.

I must admit for a ghost Annie Sawyer was very perky and not at all see through. She had looked a bit startled when I told her who we were but then she'd immediately invited us in for tea. I didn't think I'd ever say that but for a dead girl she makes a great cup of tea.

Nightingale did most of the talking while I had a poke around the house. Her friends were still at work, Annie had informed us, but should be back shortly. One of them clearly didn't much care for personal hygiene going by his room and the other had a wallpaper of creepy dwarfs on his walls and I was not entirely sure what to make of that. There were only two bedrooms, really, and another room with an armchair. I guess ghosts don't need to sleep.

I shall always deny it if anyone asks but I might have let out a little startled yelp when Annie suddenly appeared in front of me to tell me that “the boys” were home from work. I thought I'd built up a resistance to being startled from Molly creeping up on me all the time but then Molly can't teleport (Annie calls it rent-a-ghosting, which is cute, and a reference Nightingale surprisingly got. I do wonder about his television habits sometimes).

Turns out that for a vampire and a werewolf John Mitchell and George Sands looked surprisingly ordinary, especially George. He also looked decidedly stressed out by our presence – his voice went up by about an octave every time we asked him a question – whereas John looked suspiciously relaxed. Nobody innocent is ever relaxed when the police are sitting in their living room. Clearly he had some skeletons in his closet, I should have checked his room more thoroughly. Maybe the mess was a clever defence strategy? Make any copper vomit before they can thoroughly search the place?

Annie had vanished to the kitchen to make more tea for everyone while George was fidgeting with his glasses. I went to the kitchen to see if she needed any help and ended up being loaded with tea cups and biscuits up to my chin. By the time we returned to the living room Mitchell and Nightingale were deep in a discussion of vinyl records going out of style and how much more classy old gramophones were. It will never not be weird having young looking people talking about the good old times like old men in a retirement home. It made me wonder how old John Mitchell really was.

By and large for a house full of monsters they were some of the nicest people I've ever met. We finished our tea, reassured Annie that the police had no interest in taking any actions against her or her friends and then let them show us to the door. Just before we left I just had to ask her what she'd told Owen that had so deeply rattled him. He wouldn't tell us, just kept shaking his head and crying some more. Annie looked unsure how to answer my question. Understandably so, I guess, since she clearly didn't want to tell the nice policeman something that can apparently drive people mad...I should have thought this through before opening my mouth.

She traded a few glances with John that I couldn't really interpret and he finally said _You don't want to know, mate._ Apparently Mitchell knew what she'd said but going by the look of frustration on George's face he didn't. Interesting. _It's something only the dead know_ , Annie added quietly before closing the door with a wry smile.

As far as ominous phrases go that was pretty ominous I thought.

 

 


End file.
